


Common Wisdom

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:42:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes takes issue with a common bit of folk wisdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Wisdom

**Author's Note:**

> A follow-on to [You Know What They Say](http://archiveofourown.org/works/517843). This probably won't make much sense unless you read that one first. Written for hardboiledbaby, who prompted: _Hee, now that I know you've written in Ritchie-verse, I wants moar! Prompt: His eyes aren't windows to his soul._

Common wisdom claims that eyes are the windows to the soul.  
  
It’s a fallacy, as so many popular opinions are. People _see_ , but they do not _observe_. Eyes catch the ordinary person’s attention, and so men and women attribute special meaning to them, without understanding what they truly see, what information they actually convey.  
  
Eyes are very useful. The dilation of pupils, the direction of a glance, the willingness (or not) to meet another person’s gaze and hold it, the tightening of certain muscles around the eye socket… All this data is pertinent to the trained observer. In addition, the color of eyes is one of the most commonly remembered identifying features. The reliability of the information as to color and shape of the eyes is of course dependent on the quality of the witness, but in my experience it is more likely to be recalled rightly than wrongly, even when other gross details are incorrect.  
  
But windows to the soul?  
  
Balderdash.  
  
Take, for example, my Watson. Here he is, bustling around the settee where I am currently resting at his insistence, after a trifling incident after the apprehension of Giddons. A brief moment of weakness, easily overcome, even more easily remedied, now that the case is over. The body’s demands can be tended now that the mind is satisfied. A simple meal, a little rest, and I will be fully restored. For now, however, I can lie here and observe.  
  
His eyes are a remarkable shade of blue. They are expressive, and I can certainly read many of his thoughts by following their progress, seeing where they alight, reading the meaning in the flickers of eyelash, the narrowing and widening of his gaze, the size of his pupils.  
  
His eyes aren’t the windows to his soul. One might as reasonably claim that Watson’s _moustache_ is the window to his soul. Certainly it expresses nearly as much about his state as his eyes. It bristles slightly when he is irate. He runs a finger over it when he is thoughtful. It faithfully mirrors the quirk of his lips when he is amused and doesn’t wish to admit it. And it often gives more subtle clues to his well-being; habitually neat, it swiftly grows shaggy if it does not receive its daily trimming, and it routinely gives him away when he sneaks one of Mrs. Hudson’s tea-cakes, the ones coated in powdered sugar.  
  
It shields him, too. Watson’s lips are as expressive of his character as any of his other features. His moustache helps hide many of the more subtle signs those pliable indicators would otherwise give away. It masks the more subtle expressions, the small smiles, the faint tightening of his lips when he is annoyed or concerned. It hides traces of sweat, fever, and other changes to the delicate skin above his upper lip that would otherwise be apparent. You cannot see the thin lines of pain or strain that sometimes hover at the corners of his mouth, not when his moustache covers them. Not unless you are a keen observer indeed, with years of study of the subject at hand.  
  
No, Watson’s moustache isn’t the window to his soul, any more than his eyes are. Neither are his hands – though they are remarkably adept, telling so much with a simple touch, able to heal, injure, or kill with equal skill – or his arms or his legs, or any other one part of him.  
  
The glimpses of Watson’s great soul cannot be limited to any one aspect of his body. His soul shows itself in every movement, every look, every action; and through his words most of all. It infuses him entire, and anyone who cannot see as much – whether through the eyes, the hands, or even the moustache – is blind indeed.  
  
Then again, most people are blind, for all that they notice.  
  
Most see, but do not observe.  
  
The world at large is utterly unaware of the remarkable man walking among them, the priceless treasure in their midst, disguised as a war-lamed doctor.  
  
But I know. I see. I will keep him by me always, if I can. I will struggle – as I do now – to find words to tell him this, show him how I value him as best as I am able.  
  
I will probably fail. I observe, I solve – and I cannot help but know that my soul is a paltry thing, compared to his. Eventually my Watson cannot help but notice this.  
  
Then again…  
  
Well, I shall have to hope that he remains a poor observer.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted September 18, 2012


End file.
